


It's All Fine

by sevenlbs



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Chubby Sherlock, Fatlock, M/M, Weight Gain, post-S3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-22 13:10:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9608900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenlbs/pseuds/sevenlbs
Summary: Post-S3, Sherlock gains some happy relationship weight. Slow-burning WG kink.





	

Time heals all wounds, or so the saying goes, and John was thankful for it. Mary was gone now, back in hiding after her past had caught up with her in a dangerous way. The baby was with her, which was painful, but not quite as painful now that John knew he wasn’t the father. Sherlock welcomed him back to Baker Street, and it was as if a huge weight had been lifted. After a rough few months, John slowly began to feel more like himself than he had in years.

It felt just like old times – but better. John knew he would never take Baker Street for granted again. He didn’t feel like dating, and after a while, he began to suspect the reason. It had always been Sherlock, hadn’t it? It had been Sherlock since that very first day.

John couldn’t bring himself to make a move, but it didn’t much matter. He basked in Sherlock’s company, and if he found himself admiring the detective from afar, well… that was fine. It was all fine. Sherlock would probably never figure it out, and if he did… John would deal with it when the time came.

As Mary’s departure faded into the past, the mood in Baker Street steadily improved. They were busy, but not too busy, striking a balance between case work and leisure time. If John didn’t know better, he’d almost say Sherlock seemed… happy. The violin played soaring melodies these days, rather than cacophony. The wall hadn’t been shot at in ages. Sometimes, John came back from the surgery to find that Sherlock had even replenished the milk. Baker Street was starting to feel downright domestic.

In fact, John mused one morning as Sherlock poured John a mug of tea, then settled next to him to read the paper – it felt eerily close to being married. At least, this felt more like it than John’s actual marriage ever had.

Life continued as usual: plenty of takeaway, late nights at Angelo’s. John took to cooking meals, and to his great surprise, Sherlock actually ate them – and even seemed to enjoy them. Encouraged, John stepped up the shopping, and soon even Sherlock took a turn making supper several nights a week.

Of course, Sherlock was a brilliant cook (“it’s SCIENCE, John!”). They took to planning meals around their favourite crap telly shows, then capping the night off with a bottle of wine. It was as close to heaven as John could imagine, except – well, except that he couldn’t reach out and kiss Sherlock when he felt like it.

One morning, John walked into the kitchen and squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder affectionately as he went past, not even realising until Sherlock flinched in surprise.

“Sorry,” John said quickly, casting about for an excuse.

Sherlock looked up, eyes wide. “No, it’s, um. It’s fine. Really.”

“Oh,” John said, daring a smile. “Okay.”

Sherlock smiled back.

After that, John found himself reaching for Sherlock without thinking about it, nudging him with his shoulder, sitting closer on the sofa as Sherlock tangled one foot under John’s. Lines were definitely blurring.

And at last, one night, the final line was crossed. Well, make that demolished. After a particularly potent bottle of wine, they found themselves on the sofa, Sherlock’s long legs tangled over John’s for a rewatch of Sherlock’s favorite Bond flick. John put a hand on Sherlock’s knee playfully – and then left it there. Sherlock put a hand over his, just as playfully, and squeezed. When their hands twined together, it wasn’t surprising. And when they both leaned in, after that, it was nearly a relief.

For the next week, they hardly left Baker Street. Clothes were abandoned, appointments cancelled. They resumed life quietly after that, mostly the same. Except for that one not-so-subtle change, the one that meant John could kiss Sherlock whenever he wanted. At last.

After a few happy, content weeks, John began to notice another change. They’d been cooking even more, enjoying frequent meals together, dining out whenever they could. John’s trousers were feeling a little snug. But could it be that Sherlock’s buttons were straining even more than usual? John didn’t think it was possible. But the more he looked at Sherlock, the more he was convinced that his chest looked broader, his waist a touch thicker. He definitely looked healthy – regular sex and plenty of good food had given a glow to his pale cheeks. If Sherlock was putting on a few pounds, it was certainly a change for the better. God knows he’d been seriously underweight for years.

One morning, as Sherlock stood up to clear his breakfast mug, John noticed. A shift in the soft silhouette of Sherlock’s pyjama shirt, the faintest of outward curves where there was once a concavity. But it could have been an illusion – the shirt was very loose. John didn’t think anything of it, and finished his cuppa.

But that night, in bed, John couldn’t resist. He devoted himself to an exploration of Sherlock’s long, strong frame, and when he ran his hands over Sherlock’s belly, he felt a gentle rounding, a soft bit of extra flesh just at Sherlock’s middle. Delighted, he gave the spot plenty of attention, but decided not to comment – he’d hate for Sherlock to be self-conscious about such a tiny bit of pudge.

Still, the revelation caused John to take stock. The next morning he stood in front of the mirror, examining the not-so-little bit of pudge on his own frame that was causing difficulty in buttoning his jeans. He’d certainly put on a few pounds of happy relationship weight – his belly was noticeable even under his heavy jumper. He vowed to take better notice of his eating habits, and dug an old pair of trainers out of the closet. When he put them on and went for his first run in months, Sherlock didn’t comment – just chuckled and poked John’s belly in passing. “Don’t be too long,” he said, settling into his chair with his laptop.

Weeks went by; John continued to jog, and tried to eat reasonably. His trousers were still a little tight, but they didn’t seem to be getting much worse. Sherlock’s appetite, on the other hand, continued to pick up. John watched with a warm rush of pleasure as Sherlock enthusiastically dove into the roast they’d prepared, raided the fridge for late-night snacks, and ordered starters and pudding at Angelo’s. It seemed a happy Sherlock was a Sherlock who actually ate. And John was sure he liked this Sherlock rather a lot.

But it was still surprising to see the effects of Sherlock’s indulgences slowly becoming visible. Straining buttons at Sherlock’s chest were joined by even more stressed buttons at his middle. Sherlock’s trousers began to look painfully tight at the waist, their bespoke tailoring unprepared for any added inches. Even his jacket buttons were beginning to look strained. Sherlock took to wearing his pyjamas more often, abandoning his suits as soon as they got home from a case, his pyjama bottoms pushed lower to accomodate his newly rounded little belly.

Because Sherlock was getting a belly, now – there could be no denying it. Much of his new weight was settling low around his middle, and his once-flat stomach was becoming nicely rounded. “Nicely” was a good word for it – John found the sweet curve of it utterly irresistible. He was quickly becoming obsessed with making sure Sherlock didn’t lose it. Did Sherlock, in fact, notice this new change to his “transport,” or was he oblivious? Should John say something about how much he loved it, and risk Sherlock taking notice (and starting to diet)? Sherlock never did anything by halves – he’d be skinnier than ever in a month or two.

John couldn’t figure out what to do. So he said nothing, but as soon as the lights went off and they went to bed each night, he continued to lavish affection on Sherlock’s middle. Sherlock, for his part, continued to take John to pieces with his hands and his tongue, as usual. And when they weren’t in bed, Sherlock continued to eat with his now-normal enthusiasm.

One afternoon a man in a dark suit delivered a large box from Sherlock’s tailor. Sherlock said nothing about it, but the next morning, he was wearing a beautiful new suit that fit perfectly, hugging the curve of his now-slightly-visible belly. So Sherlock had to know, John guessed. But maybe Sherlock didn’t care? Or maybe he’d just gone to the tailor for a new suit without paying attention to the measurements? With Sherlock, anything was possible.

* * * * * *

The holidays rolled around, with plenty of parties to keep them occupied. Ordinarily, Sherlock complained to no end about social events, but now that they were together, Sherlock was much more amenable to an evening out. Especially if it meant he could stand next to John and make snarky observations about the other guests – and then steal John away for a snog in the coat closet.

So they didn’t turn down any invites, and instead spent a week sampling hors d’oeuvres and eggnog. After that, there was Christmas dinner at the Holmes country cottage, and more Christmas feasting back at Baker Street. On Christmas Eve, they tumbled into bed together buzzing from several glasses of good Scotch, and full to bursting with Sherlock’s roast and John’s Christmas pudding. They reached for each other, their kisses sloppy, a little breathless from overindulgence.

“Go slowly,” John urged, as Sherlock’s hand crept lower. “I can hardly move.”

Sherlock only chuckled and reached for the lube, but groaned involuntarily as he did.

John laughed. “See, moving’s not so easy.”

Sherlock’s chuckle deepened. “Who said anything about moving?” he said, a wicked edge to his voice. He rolled back toward John, closing a lube-slick hand around both of them.

“Oh, Happy Christmas,” John breathed.

“Mmm,” Sherlock agreed, shifting even closer, and John shut his eyes, surrendering to Sherlock’s touch. They slid together, writhing, lost in bliss, Sherlock’s hand guiding them both over the edge.

As they lay together in the aftermath, breathing hard, foreheads touching, John began to notice that they fit a bit differently than they once had. Sherlock’s legs were tangled in his, pressing them together from hip to shoulder, except – except, well. Sherlock’s belly was pressed against John’s, and it was – well, it was quite a belly. John’s own middle was plenty round and full at the moment, but Sherlock’s – it wasn’t a huge belly, not by any stretch of the imagination, but it was certainly hard to miss.

Fuzzy with Scotch and the buzz of orgasm, John couldn’t stop himself. He put a hand on the warm underside of Sherlock’s tum. “So,” he murmured, and gently patted it. “Holidays treating you well?”

He felt Sherlock stiffen, then withdraw slightly from their embrace. “Quite.”

No – this wasn’t how this was supposed to go at all. John couldn’t make the right words come out. His hand felt cold without Sherlock’s warm flesh under it. “Because, um. Well, I meant to say –”

“That I’m getting fat?”

Sherlock was rigid next to him. John swallowed. He had no idea what to say. It made no sense to deny it – Sherlock’s tum, full of supper, had just been squashed against John’s. “No, um. Well. Not fat, exactly,” John hedged.

“No?” Sherlock said coldly, his expression unreadable in the dim light of their bedroom.

“Just, well. I – I like it.”

Silence, but then Sherlock shifted closer again. “Do you,” he said at last.

“Christ, Sherlock. Quite a lot, actually,” John said, shifting to kiss Sherlock’s forehead. “I’ve been afraid to say anything in case you’d decide to lose it.”

Sherlock exhaled. “I’d been afraid to say anything in case you wanted me to lose it.”

John still wasn’t sure what to say. It seemed Sherlock didn’t either.

“You – you like me this way?” Sherlock asked hesitantly, after a moment.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course I do.”

Sherlock took a breath. “I’m getting – podgy,” he admitted.

John couldn’t help smiling.“You’re not so podgy.”

“John.”

“Well.” John nudged him. “Only a little bit.”

Sherlock grumbled.

“I hope, um. That is, I was hoping you’d just – you know, try not to lose weight, just – relax,” John added.

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. “I’m not sure if I can lose it.”

John blinked. “You’ve already tried?”

Sherlock sounded faintly embarrassed. “Not exactly. I did think about dieting. But nothing happened.”

John chuckled. “Yeah, thinking about losing weight doesn’t actually work. I’ve tried it.”

Sherlock sighed, sounding ,if anything, relieved to be talking about this at last. “I didn’t realise I could actually – well. Put on weight. Until recently.”

“Oh, I can tell you firsthand, it’s easy.”

Sherlock rumbled a laugh. “I know.”

They fell silent again, but this time, it was a happier silence. “So, um. Were you just – not going to mention it?” John asked hesitantly.

“Mmm. Well. I’d planned on saying something. At some point.”

“But you didn’t.”

“Obviously not.” Sherlock prodded John. “Neither did you.”

“No. No, I – I didn’t.”

Sherlock rolled onto his back, and John settled against Sherlock’s side. Feeling bolder, he rested a hand on Sherlock’s stomach again, then gave it another pat. “Impressive.”

Sherlock glanced down at himself, sounding both amused and faintly offended. “What? My belly?”

“No. That we both waited this long before saying anything.”

They both laughed, Sherlock’s middle jiggling pleasantly under John’s hand. “Well, and your belly,” John added, an obvious tease in his voice. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

Sherlock gave an annoyed huff, but John could tell it wasn’t genuine. “It’s not much,” he protested.

“No?”

“About a stone.”

“About a stone?” John tried not to sound incredulous.

“Maybe a bit more,” Sherlock said grudgingly.

“Hmm.” John gave Sherlock’s belly a faint squeeze. “Maybe.”

Sherlock chuckled, and poked John in the side. “You’re not exactly slim these days, either.”

“Ah, but I’ve never been slim.”

“True.”

“Hey.” John poked Sherlock back. “You weren’t supposed to agree with me.”

“But I’ve always liked you this way,” Sherlock said, leaning over to nuzzle a kiss into John’s neck.

John sighed contentedly. “Fair enough,” he murmured, and kissed him back.

When they broke apart, Sherlock hummed contentedly. “I did wonder why you’d started to pay so much attention to – certain areas, in bed. I feared you were trying to give me a subtle hint.”

“I was,” John said, grinning. “It just wasn’t the subtle hint you thought it was.”

* * * * * *

Christmas morning was brilliant. They did manage to get up and open a few gifts for each other – and got a big laugh out of the cookbook and kitchen tools John had bought for Sherlock. But mostly, they spent the day in bed, exploring each other as if for the first time. Sherlock was back to his content, happy self, and they ended the day with another feast of holiday leftovers, plus the ham Mrs Hudson had sent as a gift from her holiday in Spain. That night, John curled against Sherlock on the sofa to watch telly, and Sherlock didn’t flinch away when John rested a possessive hand over Sherlock’s middle, now decidedly prominent after another good meal.

“You realise, if things keep going this way, I might get – a bit bigger,” Sherlock said, during an advertisement.

“I can’t imagine you’d get too big, with all your running around.”

“Still.” Sherlock shifted. “I – I think I may need another new suit.”

John nudged him. “Already?”

Sherlock scowled. “Had to repair the trouser button two days ago.” He rested a hand over John’s. “Both my parents gained weight when they got older. I suppose it’s my turn.”

“You look marvellous.”

Sherlock sighed. “Mycroft’s having a field day.”

“You’ve never given a toss what Mycroft thinks. Why start now?”

Sherlock’s deep chuckle was contagious. When they’d stopped laughing, Sherlock sat up. “In that case,” he said, “I think it’s time for pudding.”

* * * * * *

_one year later_

“Oh, God,” Sherlock said, pushing back from the table. “That was delicious. I think I might explode.”

John raised an eyebrow.

Sherlock caught his eye and smirked. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You implied things.”

John merely chuckled, watching as Sherlock squirmed in his chair and reached down to unfasten the clasp of his trousers. Unrestrained, Sherlock’s belly relaxed into his lap.

“Better?” John asked.

Sherlock drummed his fingers contentedly against his middle. “Much.”

“I think so,” John grinned.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but his cheeks, already rosy from wine and food, flushed a bit pinker. His crisp white button-down was riding up slightly, exposing a pale, smooth sliver of belly.

Ah, Sherlock’s belly. John licked his lips instinctively, wondering how it was that Sherlock looked so attractive when slender – but even more attractive now.

Sherlock’s weight had continued to inch upward, very slowly, but very steadily. Most of it had gone to his tum, which was now hefty enough to edge into his lap while he was sitting. John loved how Sherlock had gotten into the habit of putting a hand on it while he was thinking, or working on a case. He loved how it poked up when Sherlock lay on the couch. And he especially loved the shape of it when Sherlock was full, like right now: completely round. He still thought of Sherlock as slim, for some reason, but he supposed that someone who’d just met Sherlock might even think he was – podgy. Just a little bit.

Well, if they saw Sherlock’s belly at the moment, they’d certainly think so.

“Might be time to get you out of those trousers,” John said, grinning.

Sherlock gave a half-grin in return. “Mmm. Agreed.”

John sighed, glancing at his own middle, which wasn’t too small these days either. “That does mean we have to get up.”

“Unfortunately.”

Sherlock heaved himself up, still unfairly coordinated despite the food and wine, and adjusted his shirt, which was riding up a bit over the generous bulge of his belly. As he did, his unfastened trousers began to slip, and he grasped the waistband at the side as John chuckled.

Sherlock shot him a pointed look, fumbling with his trousers. “Told you I was getting fat.”

“I still wouldn’t say fat…”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

John looked at his lover’s undeniably round tum. “Well. Just fat enough.”

Sherlock chuckled. “Bedroom, then?”

John stood up slowly, feeling the satisfying weight of dinner in his own gut, and grinned back at him. “If we can make it there.”

* * * * * * * * *


End file.
